Conceited. Pretty. Entitled. Ignored. Ugly. Marginalized. The Wannabes versus The Jigaboos is a psychosocial battle of the Light-skinned versus the Dark-skinned. Cafe au lait, high yella, and red boned on one side. Chocolate, ebon, and tar baby on the other.

It’s so crazy illogical to me that in 2010, even with a happily married and madly inspiring wannabe President and jigaboo First Lady, we still don’t see that Black is Black is Black. No matter how light or how dark, Black folks are still subjugated, exoticized, shot, raped and imprisoned more than white folk. And because of these reasons and so many more we each have, regardless of shade, our own issues, our own insecurities, hang-ups and struggles.

To this end we usually (and stereotypically) hear how females are affected by colorism– especially dark-skinned sisters who are bombarded by glamorous images of women like Halle Berry in movies, Michael Michele on TV, Liya Kebede in magazines and Beyonce in music videos. No doubt colonization, slavery and racism linger in our brain cells and bloodstream far longer than they do in history. And so the saga continues: Light is right and we desire to look more like our oppressors than our ancestors. We all have to be re-educated in order to respond differently, intelligently, proudly. And this education has to happen at home. Looking at Anderson Cooper’s feature on CNN on Monday night about skin color, I was reminded of how easy it is for self-hatred to take hold of our young brown babies if they aren’t taught to love themselves. Self-esteem has to be instilled y’all.

But dark-skinned girls are not alone in the struggle to be understood. My fairer toned sisters have their own complexes, issues and beefs. In light of Lena Horne’s transition last week I watched many of her interviews and was emboldened by her dignity to act supremely despite knowing her scenes would later be removed for Southern consumption. Hearing her tell Ed Bradley of 60 Minutes that she wouldn’t dare try to pass filled my spirit with unspeakable job: “It never occurred to me to be anything than what I was.”

Last week I also interviewed Sanaa Hamri, the music video/ film director who just helmed “Just Wright.” Sanaa, who is fair in complexion, struggles to find balance between Hollyweird’s obsession for images of Black buffoonery and with hiphop’s obsession for girls that look like Cassie: “When I used to do music videos I fought long and hard about the female leads I would use. I’m mixed and so I think I’m more sensitive to showing the richness of our many skin tones. You know the fascination with light-skinned girls that have that look is not a problem exclusive to NBA players.”

All of these realizations swooned and swirled in my head and reminded me of Jessica care Moore’s poem, “Even The Light Skinned Girls Are Sick of The Light Skinned Girls.” Less indictment and more insurrection, this poem is a cathartic revolutionary release of Wannabe/Jiggaboo anguish, aggravation and angst. Some salve for our beautiful Black messed-up selves.

Thanks to Linda Villarosa and the folks over at The Root (Teresa Wiltz & Sheryl Salomon), I had the opportunity to attend an advance screening of Just Wright and to interview Queen Latifah along with the film’s director, Sanaa Hamri for my first assignment for the “online magazine that provides thought-provoking commentary on today’s news from a variety of black perspectives.” Here is my story (in part), which focuses on the Cinderella fairytale in the face of Black modern love and inspite of Nightline’s frivolous faceoff on Black single women finding husbands.

Recently, the media seems as fascinated by black women not finding husbands as it is the horrific Gulf Coast oil spill. Interestingly enough, both issues have socioeconomic ramifications, and both dilemmas seem to be mishandled and misunderstood.

As in the case of the spill, these media pundits (and so called “relationship experts”) are using the wrong tactics to address the dynamics of marriage within African-American communities. To advise women to, “act like a lady and think like a man,” as Steve Harvey does in his book by the same name, is like using a meager conical dome to contain a 3,500 square mile oil slick. It’s ignorant, inappropriate and dead wrong. You can’t out-slick slick, and you can’t make single black women’s achievement a problem. The news is dismal enough without having Harvey and Nightline pimp African-American women as pathology.

Research from Yale University suggests that highly educated black women are twice as likely to have never been married by the age of 45 as white women with similar education. Last month, The Economist dropped a bomb in its article, “Sex and the Single Black Woman,” when it reported that U.S.-born black women ages 30-44 who were married plunged from 62 percent to 33 percent due to the “explosive” incarceration rates of black men between 1970 and 2007. These stats are enough to clear any dance floor of women waving their left hands in their air singing, “If you liked it, then you shoulda put a ring on it!” So what’s a single, successful black woman to do besides watch reruns of Carrie Bradshaw living it up on Sex and the City?

As Queen Latifah sees it, every woman (and man) needs to see her new romantic comedy Just Wright. (Well, she does have a movie to promote.) “I definitely think it can be empowering for women to watch this movie, because the average, everyday woman who works really hard and is successful will see herself in these characters,” Latifah says. “But I also think… (Click Here For Full Story)

Between her appearances on Sesame Street and her starring role as Glinda the Good Witch in The Wiz, I thought Lena Horne was the prettiest, the kindest, loveliest woman in the world. Her demeanor was positively exuberant when she sang and in silence, she was dignified and divine. I swear, when I was little, I really thought she was this goddess of sorts. When I prayed to Jesus at night, I always envisioned Ms. Lena in her glittery silver dress in that starry night of Black babies floating somewhere nearby. She was not only heavenly, for me, she was Heaven.

She was also family. I learned my ABC’s and how to be more outgoing with my young self while watching Lena Horne on Sesame Street. Sometimes as a child when I was angry at my mom for not giving me money to buy soft serve ice cream or something else equally devastating to my 6-year old mind, I would imagine life as the daughter of Lena Horne. She would buy me all the ice cream I could eat and spray Reddi-Whip all over the top letting me put the cherry on top. Aunt Lena never said no. She always had a hug and a huge grin for the children and muppets on TV, so I knew she loved me too.

And as far as my dad was concerned there was no woman finer than Lena Horne. No woman. Now that I read Lena Horne’s obit I see she was one of the most popular pin-ups for Black and White servicemen in World War II. My dad was in the Airforce in WWII and I bet he had a photo of The Stormy Weather chanteuse in his footlocker. I am in awe of her accomplishments—first Black woman to get a contract from a major Hollywood studio, her friendships–Paul Robeson, WEB DuBois, and her radical poise with regard to Civil Rights but really I have always loved her for being so regal yet so down home. Black magic.

About her fans and preserving her privacy, the Brooklyn native said, “They get the singer Lena Horne but they’re not going to get the woman.”

And about that woman, at 64 she said to 60 Minutes correspondent Ed Bradley: “I’m a rich, juicy, ripe plum again. If a lady treats other people as she’d like to be treated, then she’s allowed to go and roll in the grass if she wants to.”

At 80, Ms. Horne stated: “My identity is very clear to me now. I am a black woman. I’m free. I no longer have to be a ‘credit.’ I don’t have to be a symbol to anybody; I don’t have to be a first to anybody. I don’t have to be an imitation of a white woman that Hollywood sort of hoped I’d become. I’m me, and I’m like nobody else.”

I went to see Precious on opening weekend. Word was, Precious takes its cues from this book that makes Oz and The Wire look like spin-offs of The Magic Garden. I’ve never read Push, the book by poet Sapphire that the film is based but I was already nervous, anxious, horrified and so excited about the premise and promise of this flick. You see I believe a lil’ shock therapy is necessary to keep us emotionally in tune with all of our future and past selves. Balanced.

So I sat there for almost two hours– laughing, crying, wincing and finally exhaling. This movie, like its protagonist, and much like the actress who brings her to life—Gabourey “Gabby” Sidibe, is fat, Black and all that! I loved Precious! I loved where it took me (deep and low) and how it exposed and crushed me feel while I just sat, hand in popcorn. At times I found myself being quite nostalgic. I’m a native New Yorker who was around the same age in 1987, the year this movie takes place, as Claireece Precious Jones– the lead character. I was living in the Bronx, but would hangout in Harlem some weekends– at The Mart, on 125th bartering with the African street vendors and yeah, like Precious, I even ate fried chicken at M&G’s.

The scenes with Precious at home left me shook. Make no ham bones about it, the physical and sexual abuse that Precious endures is cruel, cold and beyond sadistic. When I was 10 I knew a Precious Jones except her name was Danielle and she lived near White Plains Rd. Truth is there’s some Precious flowing in the veins of my own life history. I was beat-up damn near every week in elementary school and during summer breaks, the girl next door, kept the beat-down fresh. I was called a big-lipped baboon; a tall goofy doofus; ugly. I was chased home by a boy wielding a big leather belt trying (and sometimes succeeding) to lash and whip me. But unlike Precious, when I got home, there was love and support from both my mother and father. There was a home cooked meal waiting for me on the stove. There was peace and calm in my home. So I could relate, but then I really couldn’t.

Although most of the reviews have been positive, there’s also been mad drama too. Juan Williams (WSJ) considers Push to be gangster lit—“poorly written (and) poorly edited.” If Push is gangster lit then so is The Bluest Eye. Armond White (NY Press) really goes off the deep-end in his review calling “Precious” an “orgy of prurience” that demeans Blacks just as much as Birth of Nation. And wait, there’s more. In a fit of looney-tunesque insanity Mr. White names some “excellent recent films with black themes” that have been ignored while Precious with its “ethnic stereotyping” gets all the hype. His idea of “excellent” is “Norbit” and “Little Man.” Instead of seriously engaging with Gabby’s portrayal of Precious he declares, “she’s so obese her face seems bloated into a permanent pout.” And later calls her “hippopotamus-like.” Yeah for Armond, a Black man, the more realistic depiction of the life of an obese Black woman is one wearing a fat suit and decidedly male.

Other writers, along with White, think the fantasy scenes are sentimental manure promoting “materialist fantasy” as motivation. Others see Precious’ desire to be white and have a light-skinned boyfriend as self-hatred. Folks, this movie is shot in the 80’s from a teen’s POV when Madonna, The Material Girl ruled the airwaves and MTV, and when the Huxtables with their Black artwork and brownstone bourgie bravada was boss. And every girl I knew including my sister and I, was deep in puppy love with Al B! Sure, Prince and Christopher Williams. The light skinned boys got all the love back then! But certainly this did not mean we hated our darker skinned selves. We were products of our environments where high yella negroes were glamorously featured in everything from Elle to Soul Train to the movie Flashdance. Precious doesn’t hate herself. Did you notice how she always rocked a beaded necklace that would match her shirt, which would match her eye shadow? Her bangs were tight everyday! She took pride in making herself up. I’m reminded of The Notorious B.I.G.’s rap, “Hearthrob neva/ black, ugly as ever,” Precious Jones knew she wasn’t pretty. But please recognize she definitely didn’t hate herself either. Precious like Biggie had heart.

This Call-to-Arms for context is also one argument that I don’t get. Why do I need a history of why Mary Jones, Precious’ mother, is on welfare and why she is constantly trying to bamboozle the system? Why must Lee Daniels, the film’s Director include a historical back story on slavery and racism to explain why she allows her man to rape her daughter? Clearly there is a lack of love. And more importantly, viewers like me watching the movie are smarter than a first grader. We come to the table with experience and information. It’s deep to me that Black visual artists like Basquiat and Kara Walker can leave things open for interpretation– trusting the power of imagination and inference, but Lee Daniels another type of visual artist has to include a key for understanding discrimination and capitalism. Our imagination, education and creativity as Black viewers and as Black producers of content are constantly underestimated and undersiege from within the community especially when we are asked to breakdown the historical relevance and meaning of every gesture and every shot of pigs feet.

There is a popular criticism though that I do believe is fair and that is with the movie’s casting. Why are all the supportive, kind-hearted, loving characters– Mariah Carey, Lenny Kravitz, Paula Patton– light skinned or white when Precious, her demon of a mother and her nasty disgusting cold-hearted father are all dark-skinned? It does create this subconscious battle of the Wannabees and Jiggaboos, Evilene vs. Lena Horne, good vs. evil. This could have been better handled, but it does not make me hate the entire movie.

At the end of the day I think Precious is shocking, tragic but with hopeful promise. It interrogates us and forces us to really look hard at even our most disgusting selves and engage. Eyes open or eyes closed it’s there and it will not cease to exist.

Please check out my thoughts on Precious from WBAI radio’s Wake Up Call.

I’ve had a press & curl, box braids, a relaxer, a texturizer, an afro, Bantu-knots and now I’m rocking long cornrows– $20 synthetic hair in the back and real afro-kinky hair for bangs. I know about Black hair– the good, the bad and the ugly. My hair has been two inches short and about 10 inches at its longest.  I cut it, tease it, straighten it, extend it and twist it. For me hair is adventure and accessory, but clearly I may be in the minority after reading and hearing the rage from Black women over Good Hair.

Last week I went to see Chris Rock’s documedy for myself and found it funny, insightful, superficial and disturbing all at once.  It was already clear to me from watching his segment with Oprah that Chris’ issues with Black women and our hair are kinda deep.  His amazement and delight with being able to run through Ms. Winfrey’s weave-free coif was akin to my seven-year old niece’s fascination when combing the silky strands of her Dora doll or better yet, like this white woman’s curiosity with my long knotty dreadlocks five years ago. Clearly Chris needs to get out of Alpine a lil’ more often. But that’s Chris Rock’s shtick: In-the-pocket-going-outta-bounds. He’s totally hilarious one minute then forgets himself (and his audience) and tends to go way left. You do remember what he said about Michelle Obama in Kill The Messenger?

I don’t know what people expected from Chris Rock’s gander at why some Black women spend thousands of dollars on weaves and have to have the “creamy crack” every four weeks. Nah, I take that back. I do know what they expected. Black women who say that Chris Rock has made a mockery of Black women, has disparaged the Black race and is celebrating rape, clearly must have forgotten that Chris Rock is the same Negro whose most memorable, if not outstanding, role in Black Americana is playing a crackhead named Pookie.  Chris Rock is no Dick Gregory, heesh he ain’t even as political as Ellen DeGeneres and she’s a judge on American Idol.  Going in to see the movie I thought Pookie’s gonna separate the Yaki-Yaki from the Afro-Kinky and I hope it’ll be funny. I was not looking for enlightenment, inspiration, empowerment or exegesis.  And before I continue, let me share that when I was eight, maybe even nine years old I would take my Baby Alive mint green baby blankey and tie it around my head and pretend I was Cher, Irene Cara or whoever had the long good-hair ponytail at the moment. So I know first hand about the desire and the beauty standards that oppress and confused Chris Rock’s daughters and so many young Black girls the world over, but I also know not to get my medical prescriptions filled at the local Laundromat.  I understand there is a history of slavery, Black Power movements and discrimination that has defined Black (self) love, but never did I presume Chris Rock would be all bell hooks on that subject. And quiet as it’s kept I did not want him to go there. Just like I don’t want Tyler Perry to go there with “For Colored Girls”. Comedians need to stay in their lane.  And yeah, I know, white people are buying tix to see Good Hair and now our bidness is on the streets. SO WHAT?!? Our bidness been on the street. Have you seen Frankie & Neffe or Meet The Browns? Guess what? More non-Blacks are watching these Stepin Fetchit scenarios of Black life than viewing Good Hair. Believe that and be mad at that!

3 Reasons (if you must) Be Mad at Good Hair:
1.) For not interviewing his wife Malaak who wears a major weave or his daughters whose images are throughout the doc. Let’s see and hear from your original inspirations.
2.) For those way too long scenes in the barbershop.
3.) For wasting so much film and my precious time on the uber boring, coon-atrics of the Bronner Brothers Hair Show.

3 Reasons To Not Be Mad:

1.) We already know this is good hair!!! (Thanks dream!)
2.) For his look at the hair trade in India and the scenes of girls getting their waist length hair shaved off as a sacrifice to God.
3.) If you weren’t outraged at Ken Burns’ foray into jazz– a quintessential Black art form, then lay off of Pookie. If it’s intolerable for a man to talk about woman’s hair, then surely it must be just as reprehensible for a white man to discuss Coltrane. Sounds kinda ridiculous? It kinda is.